Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 71647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71647 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
So here’s the thing…he didn’t understand or care about sports, and I didn’t have the brainpower to discuss physics at a deep level. Which left us with…wait for it…history.
The Renaissance gig I signed up for gave us an excuse to be together and get to know each other, even when surrounded by roommates and friends. We’d started this thing where Holden would feed me Henry VIII lines and I’d purposely mangle them to make him laugh or roll his eyes or…blush. It was funny and silly. We could joke around and press each other’s buttons the way we always had, but there were no sharp edges or cutting barbs now.
Every morning this week, we’d greeted each other with easy familiarity over coffee and engaged in casual conversation. I’d wiped down the counters, bought my own eggs, and even offered to share my blueberry yogurt. Tommy and Cole had shot curious looks when Holden hadn’t reminded me that I actually owed him several containers worth of yogurt. But honestly, they’d seemed more relieved by the peace than suspicious. They probably assumed that we’d called a truce and had bonded over the geek fest.
Which was partly true. They didn’t notice that we’d gone from standing on opposite ends of the kitchen to sitting next to each other with our knees touching under the table, pretending to be engrossed with history.
“Did you know that Henry the Eighth was a hypochondriac?” I asked this morning as I licked my spoon.
Holden stared at my mouth before lifting his mug to his lips. “No, I didn’t.”
“Mmhmm. And he decided he was a doctor too. He wrote a book on how to treat ulcers and reduce inflammation that’s on display at the British Museum.”
“Really? That’s interesting.” Holden mumbled a greeting to Cole, who’d shuffled bleary-eyed to the coffee machine, then leaned toward me. “What are you doing with your spoon?”
I held up the spoon in question and shrugged. “Nothing. Why?”
“You’re licking it,” he whispered, adding, “suggestively.”
I barked a strangled half laugh. “Spoon porn? Is that a thing?”
“Don’t ask me. I don’t know anything about porn.”
I arched my brow dubiously. “Really?”
“Really,” he assured me.
“Why not?”
“It’s not interesting to me.”
“Bullshit,” I coughed into my hand, snickering at his outraged expression. “Don’t tell me you’ve never imagined a ‘Robin Hood getting freaky in the forest’ scenario.”
“What does that even mean?”
“You know…hanky-panky in tights and those weird hats with feathers on ’em.” I dipped my spoon into my bowl of yogurt and licked it clean again. “I bet they got down to some kinky shenanigans in the Sherman Forest in Renaissance times.”
Holden pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose, which I’d learned months ago signaled an oncoming lecture. I was right.
“That’s Sherwood Forest, not Sherman, and Robin Hood is a folktale set in medieval times, not the Renaissance.”
“Same difference.” I teased, rubbing my calf against his.
He narrowed his eyes. “I suspect this is tomfoolery, but I’ll explain the difference nonetheless.”
I set my hand on his knee and smiled. “Please do.”
He blushed, then went into more detail about the difference between the medieval and the Renaissance period than my brain could process at seven a.m. But I liked it.
I polished off my yogurt, listening with half an ear as I surreptitiously studied his details—his squared shoulders, his sharp gaze, and the proud tilt of his chin. Holden was all angles and edges with smiling eyes and unconscious charisma.
When I first moved in, I’d wondered if I could handle living with a guy who spouted random bits of historic or scientific intel like an audiobook version of a dull Wikipedia entry. Funny enough, I didn’t mind at all. I learned something new every day.
For example, a few months ago, he called me a “tallow-catch” when he tripped over the shoes I’d left on the landing. I didn’t have a comeback. I literally had no idea what the fuck that meant, so I consulted Merriam-Webster. Turns out a “tallow-catch” was a lump of animal fat that butchers used to make candles in olden days. Hey, I’d been called worse. I actually appreciated that he never resorted to basic insults and rarely swore.
Holden was a true gentleman. I wasn’t. And that might never change. However, I found myself wanting to try a little harder, and maybe use this newfound supersonic power to figure out what made him tick. ’Cause it occurred to me that his quest to soak up knowledge had a manic edge. As if he used his smarts to avoid…something.
Hell, I knew all about avoiding shit. And I knew that a couple of BJs didn’t give me the right to his secrets. But I wanted them anyway.
“…the invention of the printing press changed the world forever and—” Holden paused for air and gave a self-conscious shrug. “Sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. I didn’t mean to bore you with a history lesson.”